Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:01:03 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: The Aftermath II (Legacy and Consequence) Gay Male /Authoritarian

THE AFTERMATH II
'LEGACY AND CONSEQUENCE'
Chapter 1: 'As you sow, so shall you reap!'

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): January, 2012

An archive of my stories can be found at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

The ideas and characters in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be
used without permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and
don't do any rewrites, alterations or add pictures."

Note: My first, completed story 'The Aftermath' (Or What Follows Next) was
written in 2009.

The characters in that story still appeal to me - this is especially the
case with Toby and Andy - and I have decided to revisit them and to
discover how they have adjusted to their new lives.

This won't be a long series; more a periodic story about each of the main
characters.

Chapter 1:  "As ye sow, so shall ye reap!"

Never were words more apt to describe my situation for truly I am reaping
the bitter harvest of what I have sown.

Today I stand naked and trembling in chains on the display platform of Dave
Matheson's slave market.  I am a court mandated bankrupt; today, I'm to be
sold to the highest bidder and the proceeds from my sale are to go in some
small measure to repaying my debts to my many creditors.

It seems incongruous that just a few short weeks ago Dave Matheson had
welcomed me into his establishment with open arms as I delivered four of my
primest slaves to him for an expedited sale. Then all seemed right with my
world. I owned a prosperous broad acre farm, bequeathed to me by my father
free of all debt and encumbrances. Never was a son so blessed by his
father's excellent stewardship. And never has a son so recklessly
squandered a father's generous inheritance.

Today as I wait to be sold into slavery, I am reminded of the biblical
'prodigal son.'

How has this situation come about? There are many words I could use to
describe what I have done. Some that come readily to my mind are gross
stupidity, overweening vanity, crassness, ingratitude and selfishness. But
worse than any of these is the disloyalty I displayed towards my loving
slave and farm steward, Toby.

I am guilty of all these and much more and I am sure other people ascribe
many more faults to me. I know my downfall has been much talked about among
my erstwhile friends in the arts world. How they must snigger and laugh at
my naivety and gaucheness.

Not too long ago, I had it all. A prosperous farm and a fine herd of slaves
to work in its fertile fields and a loyal steward who only ever had my best
interests at heart. Yet I have lost everything and I have been reduced to
base slavery. By today's end, I will be owned property and the slave of
some as yet unknown master.

The bleakest of futures now confronts me. At thirty years, I am young
enough and I possess the bodily strength to will attract the interest of
many buyers. Today there are fifty of us to be sold and Dave Matheson has
placed me at mid-point in the sale. At my feet, painted in bright yellow,
is the order of my sale, Lot 25. And humiliatingly, I also have that number
inscribed on the right flank of my ass and the right pectoral just above my
nipple.

There are still ten minutes before we are officially made available to the
public for their scrutiny, but already the early buyers hover over the
podium like carrion birds circling some dying prey. And even as I watch, I
see Dave Matheson, accompanied by two men and a youth, striding
purposefully in my direction. I recognise one of the men as the losing
bidder for Toby at the recent auction when I'd sold my four slaves. I
remember his name is Theodore Russell of Redgrove Plantation and
slave-breeding farm.

Does he have an interest in me and for what purpose? I know he saw Toby as
a breeding buck and that he was piqued when Obadiah Clements had outbid
him. Is that how Theodore Russell sees me; as a potential stallion for his
stud. The prospect of this is too awful to contemplate and I am
appalled. But I am powerless to prevent this if, at the end of the auction,
I am knocked down to Theodore Russell.

Just three days ago the courts tried me and found me guilty of bankruptcy;
a serious crime in our profit obsessed society. There is just one sentence
in our law statutes for people like me and that is mandatory enslavement
for life. And justice moved swiftly!

I'd been taken from the courtroom, processed into slavery and delivered to
the forge for branding and collaring. There, the letter S for slave had
been forever seared into my left flank where the angry red, festering wound
throbs with the intensity of the pain I feel throughout my body. Then
released from the branding-table, I'd been forced to my knees and placed in
the heavy metal slave collar I am doomed to wear for the remainder of my
days. Its weight bows my head in shame and burdens my soul with sorrow and
self-pity.

What has brought me to this sorry state? Why am I here as a court mandated
slave waiting to be sold to the highest bidder?

My story is one of stupidity and false pride.  It is a story of
self-centredness and self-absorption But most of all it is a story of my
disloyalty to Toby, my slave who gave his all to me.  For nigh on twenty
years, I selfishly took from Toby all of his love and devotion and in the
final analysis, I rejected these for the crassness of a bronze statue of
two naked wrestlers sensually entwined in combat.

I'd chosen the inanimate over the living. I'd preferred the cold metal of
the wrestlers to Toby's warm, inviting flesh. In my foolish vanity and
vain-glorious desire to impress my erstwhile art- loving, city friends, I'd
chosen an empty bronze shell rather than Toby's living, breathing body
within which beat a heart overflowing with goodness and love.

Foolishly, I'd chosen the lifeless form of a statue over the living body of
one who'd loved and served me unconditionally for most of his life - and
mine.

Capriciously, I had abandoned Toby and sent him to the slave-market where
he'd been sold to the lecherous Obadiah Clements.  As the auctioneer's
hammer fell announcing that this was so, I realised - too late - the
enormity of the injustice I had done to Toby.

Vainly, I tried to console myself with Toby's replacement. That night, I
tried to find solace with my new slave Grigor and I failed dismally. Try as
hard as I might, Toby's image was always before me and I was tormented by
the thought of him at the mercy of his grotesque, new master. That night, I
wept openly for Toby and my arms ached to hold him.

This proved a welcome distraction for my new slave Grigor - even his
considerable charms failed to arouse me or to lift my spirits. Not that he
tried; he retreated to the far side of my bed as far as it was possible to
move away from me. He'd entered my bed fearing the worst and I sensed his
relief at this sudden unexpected reprieve.

Poor Grigor! How he'd excited me when I'd first caught sight of him in the
slave-pens. I had lusted after him and saw him as a worthy replacement for
Toby. And I had used this to assuage my nagging conscience over my
abandonment of my loving companion slave and loyal steward.

However, contrary to my expectations, Grigor wasn't the panacea I
sought. If anything, quite the opposite is true. Every time I looked at
Grigor I was reminded of Toby and those few times when I did order Grigor
into my bed were less than successful. And as I thrust into Grigor, it was
Toby's ass that was uppermost in my mind. In contrast to Toby's eagerness
to please me, Grigor was proving sullen and unresponsive to my half-hearted
advances. Eventually, it became too painful to me to have Grigor attempt to
fill in for Toby and so I abandoned all pretence and banished him from the
house to labour in the fields.

Now of course, Grigor faces an uncertain future in line with all my former
slaves. Seized as bankrupt stock, the court has appointed Dave Matheson to
dispose of them at special slave auctions as part of the realisation of all
my property and assets to help defray some of my debts to my creditors.

I am guilty of all these things - and much more - and I can blame no one,
other than myself, for my current predicament. I didn't choose to be a
slave; indeed I wish with every fibre of my being that this wasn't so. If
only I could turn back the clock. With the benefit of hindsight my life
would be lived differently.

But I have made my bed and for better or worse I must now accept the
consequences of my foolish actions. As I commiserate with myself, I think
back to the day when Toby stood on this same platform. I now have a sense
of the loss and rejection he'd have felt together with the fear of an
unknown master and an uncertain future.

Today, I share those emotions and I am afraid; terribly afraid. Yet there
is a sense of poetic justice in what is happening to me. Toby's recent
vicissitudes - resulting from my unworthy actions - have become my current
nightmare. I deserve my fate. And yet, I wish it wasn't so.

For now, I stand as a naked slave and I wallow in a deep trough of
self-pity.

My journey to the auction-block is one that I'd rather not make. But it is
inevitable and was made so the day I foolishly sold Toby.

                                                       >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dave Matheson and Theodore Russell stop in front of me. Theodore - or Theo
to his close associates - is accompanied by his older son Ben and his
odious overseer, Silas Hacker.

Shamefaced and fearful, I can't look them in the eye and lower my gaze to
the ground. I have never meet Theodore in person and in fact the only other
time I have seen him was the day when I'd sold Toby. Then, I had watched as
Theodore, locked in a fierce bidding war, lost out to Obadiah Clements who
now owns Toby.

I have seen Toby twice since that day. Once I'd watched as Toby, together
with seven other slaves, struggled to carry Obadiah's litter aloft on their
shoulders through the crowded city streets. Given the ostentatious
ornateness of the litter and the grotesque bulk of its reclining occupant
this proved to be a herculean task for the eight, sweating, straining
slaves.

As they passed, I averted my eyes; my sense of guilt didn't allow me to
look at Toby. But not before I noticed the criss-cross pattern of angry red
and blue welts on Toby's ass and shoulders which matched those of the other
seven unfortunate wretches. Obviously, like them, he'd been sorely abused
by his new Master.

The next time I saw Toby was on the night of my soiree when I introduced
the statues of the two wrestlers to the city's art elite and glitterati.

Obadiah, as is his manner, staged the grand entrance. All eight of his
litter-bearers were in their customary nude state but their bodies had been
coated from head to toe in gold body paint and they wore laurel wreaths on
their heads. Obadiah was outrageously dressed in a caftan and turban
-resplendent with peacock feathers - after the manner of a dissolute,
oriental potentate.

Such behaviour is expected of Obadiah by his fawning sycophants in the arts
community and his arrival was greeted by loud applause. As the host, I was
on hand to greet him - after all he was to give the introductory speech
before the unveiling of my statues - and I hurried forward to warmly
welcome him to my home.

I waited as the eight, exhausted slaves slowly lowered the heavy litter to
the ground to allow its occupant to exit gracefully. Although, given his
bulk, it's doubtful if any of Obadiah's movements could ever be considered
graceful.

Unfortunately, one of the slaves stumbled, interrupting the fluidity of the
movement and causing the litter to lurch to one side. I don't know which
slave it was; under their anonymous body paint they all looked the same to
me and I'm not sure if Toby was the guilty culprit. But it didn't matter if
he was innocent or guilty - in their Master's eyes all eight slaves were
equally guilty of publicly embarrassing him - and all eight paid the price
for his anger.

As he tumbled out of the litter, Obadiah retrieved a strap that he
obviously carried for just such an occasion and after soundly berating
them, he ordered all eight slaves to put their noses to the ground and to
raise their asses heavenward. Then with energy quite out of keeping with
his generally poor condition, he moved from one to the other delivering
five, stinging cuts of the strap to each upturned ass. Even then his anger
wasn't assuaged; as the slaves cringed beneath his self-righteous
indignation he promised that tomorrow each slave would receive ten strokes
of the whip for their carelessness.

Of course, Obadiah loves playing to an appreciative audience.  With much
'tut-tutting' and shaking of their heads his art-loving devotees urged him
to punish the eight slaves for their negligence. Not that Obadiah needed
any further urging. I knew of his rumoured, formidable reputation as a hard
task-master and that night I saw strong evidence of it.

Obadiah's endurance and the obvious pleasure he received from publicly
chastising his slaves surprised me. Altogether, he delivered forty strokes
of his strap to the eight slaves - a formidable task even for a fitter and
younger man - I assumed it was his relish for the task that gave him the
added strength to see it through to its unhappy - for the slaves -
conclusion.

But when I looked at Obadiah, I was suddenly concerned for his wellbeing; I
thought he was at the point of collapse. His face was suffused an apoplexy
red and the overtaxed arteries in his neck pulsed in erratic timing with
his labouring heartbeats.

His exertions had left him a wheezing, heaving mound of corpulent flesh and
my concern was that he'd not be able to deliver his introductory speech to
my guests. However, my fears were groundless. By the time I called upon him
to speak, he'd regained his composure - helped enormously by the quaffing
of copious amounts of the expensive French wines I bought especially for
the occasion - and he entertained my guests with his usual flair and wit.

The night went well and I basked in the fulsome praise of my art-loving
friends. Despite my initial misgivings about Obadiah's treatment of my
former slave, I soon put Toby out of my mind. After all, Toby is now
another man's slave and how his owner treats him isn't my concern. It is an
unwritten rule among slave-owners that they never criticise another on the
treatment of his slaves.

My soiree was an outstanding success and the complimentary praise of the
city's art community went to my head. I'd spared no expense in entertaining
them and I lavished them with an overabundance of expensive food and
wine. That night, I didn't give thought to how I was to pay for all this
-that could wait.

Everything had been charged against my next harvest - and I found the
caterers and wine-merchants were very persuasive in convincing me to serve
only the best and most expensive of their wares to my guests. And to assist
me in buying their goods, they gave me an unlimited line of credit against
my ripening crops. Foolishly, I'd not seen the pitfalls involved in doing
this. However, at one stage I guiltily thought of Toby and how he'd
disapprove of my spendthrift ways.

I'd chosen a 'wrestling' theme for the night and I'd instructed my new
steward, Toby's replacement, to dig a deep pit and to cover its base with a
mixture of dry, red earth and oil. I read this is a common form of
wrestling on - I think - the Indian subcontinent and the pictures I'd seen
had aroused me with their sheer eroticism. I'd personally inspected my
slave herd to choose the brawniest and most muscular from among them to
serve as wrestlers on the night.

The sensuous sight of these naked wrestlers, their bodies generously coated
with oil, slipping and striving to gain the upper hand over their opponents
in the slithery environment of the pit proved most entertaining and was
well received by my appreciative guests.

And to further impress them with my 'sophistication', at enormous expense,
I'd hired some pleasure slaves from the Patroklos Club to serve as waiters
and to entertain my guests in a series of salacious tableaux that showcased
their sexual prowess. These slaves approached their duties with great
enthusiasm and proved enormously popular. Their 'no holds barred and
anything goes' demonstrations were greeted with long and sustained
applause.

Dave Matheson had told me that one of my four slaves had been bought by the
owner of the club for use as a pleasure slave and it was through his
negotiations that I'd arranged to hire these slaves. I was taken aback when
I'd received the owner's quote for the hiring of his slaves but Dave told
me that the charge was more than reasonable when you considered the loss of
income to the owner by the slaves being absent from the Patroklos Club for
the night.  In my eagerness to impress and despite my misgivings, I'd
acquiesced to Dave's convincing arguments.

Of course, I'd felt duty bound to invite Dave to my soiree even though I
knew my socially conscious guests would frown upon his presence. He was
after all only a slave-trader!

Dave accepted my invitation - I had hoped he wouldn't. He'd over imbibed
and his coarse manners, loud talking and raucous laughter did embarrass me
in front of my more refined guests. Dave was very much a 'fish out of
water.'

Now he stands before me with Theodore Russell and I am very much his social
inferior.

He walks behind me and viciously swipes his cane across my ass. I have
received my first stripe for the day. But it won't be the
last. Imperiously, he orders me to.

"Stand at full display, boy! Mr Russell wants to inspect you."

Trembling, I hasten to obey.

To be continued????.